


The Way Our Story Goes

by WyattAnderson (dappled_feathers)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Heavy Abuse Of Extended Metaphors, M/M, More Bastardized British Slang, Non-Canon Relationship, Or At Least Give Them Hugs, POV Multiple, Pre-Relationship, Rare Pairings, Slow Burn Like Whoa, alternative universe, and italics, oh god so much angst, someone help these boys, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-12-27 08:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12077565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappled_feathers/pseuds/WyattAnderson
Summary: "It’s a tragedy,the way our story goes;maybe, perhaps, almost."- IF IT’S LOVE, IT MUST BE MORE THAN MOST | P.D





	1. Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the above tumblr post by a truly talented writer that you all should be following: http://lostcap.tumblr.com/
> 
> First multi-chapter fic, hope you enjoy (especially if you're a bit of a masochist). Comments and critiques very welcome, and thank you in advance!

Cedric’s scarf is a vivid shade of yellow, bright as a sunflower on a lazy Sunday.

Cho’s nails, when she twines her hand in his, are the same soft grey-blue of the clouds outside the Ravenclaw common room.

The torches in the dungeons bathe everyone in a warm orangey glow that belies the cold and clammy air, and the potion in his cauldron is an eye-searing magenta.

His owl, Hume, has feathers the color of tree bark, except around her eyes, where they fade to a tawny brown.

Apparently, anyway. Cedric has never actually seen any of these colors for himself. Only had them described to him by well-meaning friends, who always explain colors by comparing them to things, not realizing that doesn’t really help at all. He was diagnosed with achromatopsia when he wasn’t yet a year old; most of those descriptions don’t mean a thing to him. His world doesn’t exist in shades, only light and shadow.

So when he hears the words, “Kill the spare!” followed swiftly by “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”, he doesn’t see green, only a sudden and searing flash of light.

And after that, nothing.

♠

“‘Don’t kill Cedric! Don’t kill Cedric!’ Who’s Cedric- your boyfriend?”

Harry should probably take off his glasses. You can’t punch what you can’t see, and Harry very much wants to punch his cousin right now.

Actually, no. He wants the world to work the way his vision does. He wants Dudley, and especially the leer crawling up his face, to go away. He wants him to fade to greyish-brown fuzz, become something inconsequential, amorphous and easy to ignore. He wants the world to be as dark and barren and lonely as his mind.

And then, suddenly, horribly, he gets his wish. The temperature plummets, the sweat on the back of his sunburned neck goes clammy, darkness descends but the stars don’t come out. They run, him and his cousin, fear pumping adrenaline through their legs and driving them faster, faster, as the dementors give chase, making them shake when they collapse to their knees, when they can’t possibly run anymore. Slimy hands wrap around their throats and rotting mouths hover just over their faces. Smelling putrid, smelling _hungry_.

In the past, Harry always heard his parents. Had to listen to their desperation, their pain, until the choking moment when suddenly there was nothing more to hear. But Cedric didn’t say anything. He didn’t have time to. So instead, Harry sees it, over and over, the green light and the staring, unseeing eyes and the handsome face slightly blurred out because Harry’s glasses got knocked off. The last time he saw Cedric’s face, before he stopped being Cedric and started being a corpse, and he couldn’t even see it properly. His last chance, his final memory. Damaged.

And then he hears a whimper, low and defeated, coming from his cousin. So Harry raises his wand, and _doesn’t_ think of Cedric, and once again evades death by the skin of his teeth.

Later- after the bombshell that is the entire conversation with Mrs. Figg, after the swarm of owls and contradictory letters, after nearly getting kicked out of the house he never wants to be at in the first place, when he’s sitting in his room by himself in the dark- it occurs to Harry that maybe, this should’ve been a bonding experience for him and Dudley. Facing death together, saving the person he’s always hated, should probably leave some kind of mark. Force them to understand one another, just a little bit, just a tiny scrap of empathy that makes them realize how pointless their former feud had been. But Harry just feels as he always does these days- angry. Trapped. Willfully misunderstood. Dudley’s earlier comment pricks like thorns weaving themselves behind his eyes.

_Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend?_

What would Dudley know about it. What the _fuck_ would he know about Cedric. Nothing, that’s what.

Nobody knew.

Because Harry didn’t tell them.

♠

Full colorblindness means a lot more than not being able to color-coordinate his outfits. For one, Cedric is nearly blind, at least during the day. Without color as a filter, bright sunlight makes the world white out, makes his eyes water and screw themselves shut. There’s a spell that was invented just after he turned ten, and it helps tremendously; but Cedric still prefers the night, when circumstances reverse themselves and everyone else is left squinting and stumbling, while the world for him is as crisp and neat as a book illustration.

So, Cedric often has trouble picking out fine detail, but _movement_...well, that’s a different matter. It’s more than being able to see it; it’s like he can sense it without any input from his eyes at all. He knows when something moves, follows it instinctively- his eyes getting caught up in his mum’s hand gestures as she talks, his feet wanting to stomp in time with his dad’s when he walks inside and shakes the mud from his boots. He gets distracted, in his classes at the muggle primary school, whenever any of his classmates so much as fidgets.

Then, Cedric makes the second-greatest discovery of his life.

On the one hand, Cedric is aware that he shouldn’t be friends with Luna. She’s the kind of person who believes in crumple-horned snorkacks and outlandish political conspiracy theories. His dad always calls the Lovegoods “nutty”.

On the other hand, he likes listening to her stories, and Luna is also the type of person to invite a nearly-blind boy to try out her new Cleansweep, so Cedric privately thinks everyone else can go stuff it. Of course, he’s been forbidden by both his parents to so much as glance at a broomstick, and Luna might not care much for rules, but Cedric does. But almost every summer evening he can see the Weasleys just over the hill, their laughter carrying to him as he watches them swoop and dive and soar, and Cedric _wants_. He’s not used to wanting. His parents give him everything he could ever need and withhold almost nothing, so long as he asks politely first. He has no idea what to do with this aching in his chest, this pull of his heart towards the sky and open air, this _need_ to be among them.

So when Luna says, “You can have a go, if you want,” Cedric breaks the rules without a second thought.

“Mum! Dad!” Cedric bursts into his house, overjoyed and tracking mud everywhere, Luna right behind him. He finds his parents in the backyard, sharing the Daily Prophet and a jug of pumpkin juice. His Dad smiles at him indulgently, but jumps up when he sees the broomstick, nearly overturning the jug.

“What do you think you’re doing with that!” he demands, his brow like a storm front.

Cedric holds the broom in front of him like a shield. “Wait, wait! Hold on a moment, I’ll show you-”

“Cedric Amos Diggory,” his Mum interrupts, “you give that broom right back to Luna, and-”

“Please!” Cedric pleas, beginning to feel desperate- he has to show them- “You’ll _see_ , I can-”

“Oh, just do it, Ced,” Luna says placidly, and throws the Bludger and Snitch into the air.

Cedric hops onto the broom and speeds away from his parents’ outraged cries. In fact, everything fades away as he goes up and up and up, until there’s only clouds above and the gentle sway of trees below. He takes a huge breath- this feels _marvelous_ \- and then there’s a glimmer of movement in the corner of his eye. He races after the Snitch, knowing he won’t catch it right away, but the chase is almost better. Because he never loses the sense of it, the sharp, sudden bursts of speed as the little golden ball speeds around his backyard, and his body tells the broom to follow almost before he’s aware. He feels the Bludger swoop in from the side in a sneak attack, but Cedric just barrel rolls and keeps going. The broom is like a part of him, as natural as his racing heartbeat, the wind and sunlight worming their way into his blood. He catches the Snitch almost unconsciously, his hand grabbing what he can’t quite see, exactly, yet still knows is there. He catches the Bludger, too, when he lands and it dives straight for him.

His Mum and Dad aren’t yelling anymore. They’re not speaking at all, just staring, open-mouthed.

When he goes to Hogwarts the following year, they won’t let him try out for the team, insisting that eleven years old is still too young. But they buy him his own broom, and his second year, he makes Seeker.

♠

Harry brings the note home on a drizzly March afternoon. Going from the rain to the over-warm house makes his glasses fog up, fuzzing out the lower half of Aunt Petunia’s face as he hands her the envelope, given to him by his teacher. It has his name on the front, but he hasn’t opened it. They’d know if he had, and then he’d be in even more trouble than the note will bring.

She opens it with a little scowl. “What have you done this time?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Only seven and already a delinquent, I just knew when we took you in-” her voice cuts off as she reads the note, and her scowl deepens.

“What is the meaning of this?” she hisses, waving the paper in his face.

“What’s R-E-P-L-A-C-E spell?” Harry asks. The word is hovering over his right lens.

“Replace,” Aunt Petunia says, like it’s a filthy word. “They’re telling us your glasses need replacing.”

Harry’s only had his glasses for three months. They’re heavy-framed, black, and square. Dudley broke them a fortnight ago, trying to flush them down the toilet. He’s been using sellotape to hold them together, and the left lens is cracked down the middle.

Aunt Petunia takes the note to Uncle Vernon, who’s sitting in front of the telly watching EastEnders. He reads it and grunts. “Just take him to the discount warehouse in Twickenham. And you, boy,” he points one of his sausagey fingers at Harry, “if you break this next pair, there’s no replacing them. If you can’t take proper care of the things we buy you out of the goodness of our hearts, it’s your own ruddy fault.”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” Harry says, because there’s no use saying anything else.

The warehouse itself is enormous, bigger than his young eyes can comprehend. Shelf after shelf, bin after bin, of overstocked and undersold frames- he wanders through the aisles as Aunt Petunia argues with a salesman, waving his prescription papers around like a battle flag, while Dudley wanders around looking for more things to break. Most of the frames all look the same as his old ones, which are still barely dangling off his nose. There are some lime green cat-eyes that Harry hides at the bottom of the bin and prays Dudley won’t find and force him to try on, a few that look like Mrs. Figg’s reading glasses, and another with rhinestones falling off. He wanders farther and farther, the sound of Aunt Petunia snipping at the salesman fading into background noise.

The dust gets thicker the farther back he goes, making him sneeze. Harry likes the glasses here better, though. They’re wire-framed instead of plastic, not easily broken, something he could bend back into shape himself when something inevitably happens to them. He tries on a circular pair, and they make him feel like that singer- John Lennon. There’s a poster of him in his classroom at school, with the word “Imagine” under his face. There’s no mirror, so Harry has no idea whether he looks stupid or not. Still, he likes the glasses.

“Can I have these, Aunt Petunia?” he asks.

She frowns as she takes the glasses and looks at the price tag, but the frown doesn’t deepen. “Oh, all right,” she says after a moment. “I want to be out of here as quickly as possible.”

He has to give them back, so they can pop out the fake plastic lenses and pop in his prescription, and the order won’t be ready for a few days. They have to drive all the way out here again, which makes Aunt Petunia suck on her teeth, but Harry doesn’t mind. He so rarely gets what he wants, and even more rarely gets what he dares to ask for.

♠

“Your problem, Diggory old chap, is that you see the world in black and white,” Stebbins says, smirking and making his chair balance on two legs.

“Your problem, Stebbins,” Cho replies, before Cedric has a chance to open his mouth, “is that you thought that joke was funny the first time. Which, so you know, it wasn’t.”

She’s a bit touchy, Cho is, whenever they bring up Cedric’s little quirk. Not that she needs an excuse to argue with Stebbins.

“All I’m saying,” Stebbins says (ignoring her completely, and _Merlin_ is he going to pay for that later), “all I’m saying, is that really, I don’t see what’s so damn hard for the goblins to understand. You pay for it, you own it. ‘S that so bloody difficult?”

“But the culture is different,” Cedric argues. “Ownership means something different.” And really, if he’d known it would’ve come to this, he could’ve done his essay alone in his bed. Usually the library is a guaranteed excellent study spot, and Madame Pince lets him in at any hour because, in her words, he is One of the Good Ones. Clearly, though, today is not a day for usual.

(“Also, you’ve completely misused that phrase, you’re the one with the overly simplistic argument, not me,” he doesn’t add, though it’s pushing three a.m. and he’s feeling rather prickly and he’d very much like to.)

“And they’re always starting wars with each other-”

“Mate, look,” Cedric says. “Can we continue this discussion later? Only I’ve got two rolls of parchment left to write and it’ll be sunrise in a few hours.”

Stebbins rolls his eyes. “Fine, Mr. Social Justice. I’m done with the chapter anyway.” He stuffs parchment and book and quill unceremoniously into his bag. “Don’t get caught by Filch on your way back,” he says, by way of parting thoughts, and with a jaunty two-fingered salute, he’s gone.

“It’s not like humans don’t start wars with each other all the time,” Cedric says to Cho quietly, because despite Stebbins’ complaints, he really feels it does need to be said.

“I know,” she says, lacing her fingers through his (her nails, she told him earlier, are sunrise pink). They often hold hands, and if it isn’t her and him, then it’s her and Marietta, or her and any other of her friends. Cho must always be touching _somebody_ , and Cedric doesn’t mind. He’s happy to be someone’s point of security, to say over and over with simple touch, _Here I am, right next to you, not going anywhere_.

He does worry about her, though, sometimes. They worry about each other.

“I can proofread what you have, if you like,” Cho offers, perhaps sensing that the words he’s just written look alien to him, blurring together on the page, that even the dim glow of the candles is starting to leave angry spots in his vision. He pushes what he has of his essay towards her. She might be two years younger than him, but her grammar is miles better, and she’s probably the only reason he’ll pass his OWL’s.

He sits silently and watches as flickering shadows play across her face, and maybe he can’t tell one shade of pink from another, but he can admire the way the candle flames play with the angles of her cheekbones, dance in the hollow of her throat and glance off her black hair. Cho is beautiful like a swan, irritable as one too, emotions fragile as feathers. Her eyebrows furrow as she concentrates, the corners of her mouth turning down at some of his more egregious errors.

Yeah, he still knows beauty when he sees it.

It’s almost four a.m. when Cho passes back his ruin of an essay, and they both agree that this abuse of their brains must end. They steal quietly through the hallways from shadow to shadow, though the chances of getting in trouble even if they do get caught are slim. Cedric has noticed that he’s rather immune to trouble. He tries not to abuse it.

They’re almost to Ravenclaw Tower when Cedric rounds a corner and smacks right into something invisible. A voice says “Oh God, sorry,” and suddenly Harry Potter is there, glasses askew and hair sticking up in all directions.

“Where did you come from?” Cedric asks, rather stupidly.

“Sorry,” Potter says again, then blushes when he catches sight of Cho. She smiles at him, dimpling sweetly, and Cedric watches as the dark stains on his cheeks spread. It’s rather fascinating.

“Um,” Potter says, after they’ve all stared at each other for several seconds. “I won’t say anything if you won’t?”

“Right,” Cedric hears himself reply, a little faintly.

Potter gives a sharp nod. “Right. Um. Bye, then.” And then he disappears again -and really, he’s only _twelve_ , how is he _doing_ that- and Cedric and Cho are alone again.

“He’s cute,” Cho says.

♠

“Mate. You’re staring.” Ron jabs Harry in the ribs, jolting him to attention. Harry slides his gaze away from the Hufflepuff table, back to the egg yolk dripping over his toast.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He picks up his fork, only to drop it immediately and let it clatter to the floor. “I just- I don’t get it! Why would he offer a rematch?”

Ron groans. “I dunno. He’s a Hufflepuff, s’what they do, innit? Fair play, and all that?”

“It was a fair win,” Harry admits, though it feels like he’s speaking around a stone in his throat. He lost a match. _He lost a match_.

“Hardly,” Hermione sniffs. “The dementors weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the pitch. If they hadn’t swarmed you, you would have won, and Cedric knows it. Not that it was his fault,” she amends, “but he’s right. It isn’t fair.”

“Maybe,” Ron adds, gesticulating forcefully with a bit of kipper, “Diggory thinks the dementors are an easy excuse for your loss. Maybe he wants to _know_ he beat you.”

Hermione frowns, but clearly can’t think of a good argument, and Harry can’t, either. It makes more sense than any other explanation.

It shouldn't matter. It _doesn't_. But...it's kindness, and from a completely unexpected source. Harry doesn't even know Diggory, not really. His eyes travel back to the other boy of their own accord. They track Diggory’s gravely handsome face, try to puzzle him out like he’ll discover his motivations in the way he butters his toast.

“Maybe-” Harry starts.

“No,” Ron interrupts firmly. “It’s too early for this. We can deal with your new crush after breakfast.” He takes an enormous bite of toast to make his point.

“I don't have a _crush_ ,” Harry argues, and Ron and Hermione roll their eyes in perfect tandem. Harry gives up while he's behind, and doesn't mention Diggory again.

♠

The flames are blue, according to Cho. They look white to Cedric, hot enough to melt his fingers, but when he goes to slip his name in, there’s only a tickling warmth.

He hesitates, hand trembling very slightly.

“Oh, go on, Cedric!” Cho half-whispers from just behind the Age Line. She gives him a winning smile that she probably thinks is charming. It is. “You know you want to.”

“I dunno,” he murmurs. “What if I make an utter fool of myself?” He can only imagine, has imagined too often: standing in front of a cheering crowd, facing a dragon or a manticore or a quintaped and freezing in his tracks, his mind wiped blank, cheers turning to catcalls and laughter as he stands there and stands there and stands there-

“Oh, rubbish,” Cho snorts, jolting him out of his daymare. “You’re the best Hogwarts has to offer, and everyone but you knows it. The Cup will pick you, and then it’s a Hogwarts victory, guaranteed.”

Cedric smiles ruefully. “Thanks, Cho. That was very stirring.”

“Anytime, dear.”

He turns back to the Cup and does the math. He doesn’t know yet whether he’s the type to freeze and run when facing danger, but he supposes if he is, the Cup will never choose him. And if it does, then that means he is the best option (well, according to an inanimate object, whose judgment Cedric doesn’t entirely trust), so he must have some kind of fighting chance.

Right?

“Cedric,” Cho says. “You do realize what time it is? Classes will let out in a moment and everyone will see you.”

Right. Decision made. Cedric tosses the slip of parchment right into the middle of the flames. Instantly, they roar higher and grow even brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat. They’re properly hot now, hot enough that he can feel his eyebrows singe. But in the next instant, they die down, go back to crackling cheerfully, as if trying to convince him that they’re completely benign.

They don’t say anything on the way back- Cedric’s still too keyed up for conversation. But Cho squeezes his hand comfortingly before wishing him good luck and disappearing into Professor Flitwick’s classroom, and Cedric walks back to Transfiguration feeling as though a bit of weight has fallen off his back.

He considers owling Dad -he can clearly picture the surprise and delight on his face- but ultimately decides against it. You know, just in case.

♠

“I was telling the truth,” Harry says, already knowing it won’t do any good.

“Ah...Okay,” Diggory says, right on cue. Harry’s not a complete idiot, and Hermione is his best friend- he know what equivocation is. Classic Hufflepuff trait, and right now Harry couldn’t be more frustrated by it, because it’s not even giving someone the benefit of the doubt. It’s certainly not what he wants from the boy next to him.

They continue down the corridor in uneasy silence, footsteps echoing softly off the stone walls, gaits perfectly matched for all that Diggory is a head taller. Harry comes up with another retort with every beat:

_This is the opposite of what I wanted._

_Why won’t you just say what you mean?_

_What do you even care? They’ll side with you anyway. You know they will._

_Just because you know my name doesn’t mean you know me._

_This was supposed to be a good year._

_I’ve never had a good year._

_Sometimes my dreams about Cho turn into dreams about you and I have no idea what to do with that._

_Why won’t you even look at me? How can you judge me when you don’t **look**?_

They come to a fork and Diggory pauses. “Well...see you, then,” like he has no idea what else to say, and good. At least Harry’s not the only one completely mortified by this entire situation. Harry is completely and thoroughly sick of being the only humiliated one in the room.

Diggory walks away, but Harry stays put, listening to a lone pair of feet slowly dissipate down a dark hallway. His heart hurts and he both knows and doesn’t know why.

♠ ♠ ♠


	2. Perhaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY GOD, Y'ALL.
> 
> So. Almost a year later, I FINALLY manage to spit out the next chapter. I can't begin to say how sorry I am. Will it help if I confess I've had several life-altering events happen one after the other? Argh. That's no excuse. Either way, my most sincere apologies, and you have my word that it won't take me another year to upload the final chapter. I almost didn't post this one, but I finally decided to stop picking at it. I'm obsessive. It's a problem. 
> 
> Anyway. I bring you Chapter Two: In which I am an utter tease, Harry continues to be The Angstiest™ with a side order of Poet™, and Cedric manages to be smooth for two whole minutes before he faceplants into his feelings.

 

 

Cedric wakes up to his own name trying to sear itself onto his retinas.

 

“Ow,” he says, emphatically, and smacks away the thing shoved in his face.

 

“Aw, Ced, don’t be like that.” Thomas smirks. “Look what that Malfoy kid made.”

 

It’s some sort of...button. Frowning, Cedric takes it from Thomas’ hand. At first it says, _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY- the REAL Hogwarts Champion!_ But then the words disappear in a swirl that makes all of his head hurt, to reveal _POTTER STINKS_.

 

“That’s horrible,” Cedric says, and not just because he’s grumpy and in pain. “We’re both the Hogwarts’ Champion.” Merlin. Even with the curtains shrouding his bed, the morning sun hurts so much. He didn’t sleep a wink last night, too busy imagining horror scenarios of the First Task.

 

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Hardly. Professor Moody’s got some theory- Potter must’ve submitted his name under a fourth school, somehow. _You’re_ the real Hogwarts champion.”

 

“Even if he did, doesn’t that worry you? A fourth year who can Confund a magical object as powerful as the Triwizard Cup?” Cedric points out, if only because he’s had the same worries himself. After all, this is the person who managed to survive a troll, a homicidal chess set, a basilisk, and He Who Must Not Be Named, _twice_ \- not to mention whatever else he’s gotten up to that the school _doesn’t_ know about. Cedric is not going to be the one who underestimates his competition. Not when so much is at stake.

 

Especially not when said competition is _fourteen_. Helga’s pants, what was he doing when he was fourteen?

 

“Please don’t wear the button,” Cedric says.

 

Thomas frowns. “I’m just trying to support you, mate.”

 

Cedric shoves a pillow over his eyes. “Support me by dragging me to the kitchens. I’m so tired. I need coffee. Tea. Something.”

 

“Rejuvenation Reduction?” Thomas asks with a smirk, and tosses a small vial at his chest. “Wakey wakey, o Champion!”

 

Cedric groans.

 

♠

 

Harry’s walks through the castle corridors are filled with jeers and hisses, and neither Ron nor Diggory ever look at him. Harry thinks he might be going out of his mind.

 

 _Just grey them out_ , Harry tells himself, over and over. _Let them fuzz over. They don’t mean anything, they’re not there. It’s all just fog._

 

Only it’s impossible when your best friend in the world, who _hates_ you now, has bright ginger hair that refuses to fade into the background whenever he walks by. It might be better if he strutted past, nose in the air like Malfoy, but instead Ron is always staring straight at the ground, face screwed up like he’s about to cry, making it impossible to be really, properly angry.

 

“Why aren’t you mad at him?” Harry asks Hermione. She’s walking with him to class now, but later she’ll be paired up with Ron in Herbology, working alongside him like nothing at all is wrong with the world. Her whole day is parceled between them now. She probably has a schedule drawn up, making sure she splits her time between them perfectly evenly.

 

“Oh, I am,” Hermione replies, and her eyes are stormy. “I tell him all the time that he’s being an idiot. And he knows. He just has to admit that to himself. And you should be having this conversation with him, not me.”

 

“No,” Harry replies shortly.

 

“Well, then, now you’re both being idiots.”

 

Harry stomps ahead.

 

Later, he goes down to Hagrid’s, alone. Hagrid doesn’t make him talk, just pours him some tea and feeds him chocolate scones. They’re actually edible, which Harry takes to mean he probably looks as bad as he feels. But Hagrid doesn’t say anything either, just settles into the chair next to him and starts stitching his circus-tent-sized quilt, humming something that sounds suspiciously like The Incy Wincy Spider.

 

 _It’s a trap!_ Harry’s mind screams.

 

“Hagrid, can people like both boys and girls?”

 

What.

 

That is _not_ what he thought would come vomiting out of his mouth, _at all_.

 

But hell, fine. This problem, out of all the others, is probably the least dangerous and confusing, and doesn’t that just say something.

 

Hagrid chuckles. “People can be attracted t’all sorts of things. Sometimes it don’ make sense, but tha’s people all over.”

 

Harry considers this as he chews on a scone.

 

“Is this ter do with Ron?” Hagrid asks, and Harry chokes on the scone.

 

“No,” he says between coughs, “no it's- it's not- it's not him. Like that. It's not to do with him at all.”

 

Which isn't exactly true, though, is it? Because Ron should be one of the people he goes to with this, the one who gets angry at him for not liking himself, the one fully prepared to blacken the eye of anyone who might dare to laugh at him, call him a poof. Suddenly, Harry misses him so badly, he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His vision swims.

 

An enormous hand lands on his shoulder. The touch, as touch always does, nearly makes him shudder with the warmth that floods through his chest. So many emotions, none of them matching, always rising and falling inside him, always fighting. Why is he always _fighting_.

 

“Well,” Hagrid says, both fond and wistful, “leastwise yeh’ve got a regular problem on yer hands, fer once.” The grip on Harry’s shoulder tightens. “There’s nothin’ wrong with yeh, Harry. Nothin’ at all. I can promise yeh that.”

 

“It’s just. It’s all so _much_ ,” Harry confesses in a small voice. This might be normal but it still feels like the final straw, like his knees might collapse at any moment, like his shoulders are slowly caving in. He fights so hard but he’s losing ground, bit by bit.

 

“I know everythin’ happens ter you,” Hagrid sighs, “but sumthin’ll give soon. It’ll be better then, yeh’ll see.”

 

Harry wants to believe that. He wonders, sometimes, if belief is all he really has.

 

♠

 

On the whole, Cedric thought the Wand Weighing ceremony went rather well- he didn’t say anything stupid, the spot on his chin cleared up the night before, and most importantly, his wand was pronounced to be in perfect working order.

 

But the next morning, he gets the letter from his dad:

 

… _slanderous slag is at it again, it’s a wonder she can hold a quill without it exploding in her hands from sheer audacity…_

 

_...not a single mention of you or our family, of all the hard work you’ve done to get here, while certain others ride on their fame..._

 

... _don’t listen to a thing she says, Ced, you beat him once and you’ll beat him again…_

 

Between the letter and his friends’ comments, Cedric doesn’t need to read the article. He hears every line minced over in what seems to be every conversation he has.

 

“‘S bloody typical, isn’t it?” Ed Abbot complains at breakfast for the fifth day in a row. “One of ours finally does something worth shouting about, and some Gryffindor ponces it.”

 

“I didn’t enter for the glory,” Cedric interjects. _Again_. Really, who do they think he is?

 

“Not what I mean,” Ed amends with a conciliatory hand wave. “I’m not asking anyone to make a statue in your honor, mate. But they can damn well mention you in an article about Hogwarts Champions when _you are one_.”

 

“Credit where credit is due, but we can’t even get that, can we?” Thomas adds around a mouthful of egg.

 

Stebbins’ grin has a nasty edge to it as he nods. “Typical Gryffindor, isn’t it, going on for pages, blasting his own horn-”

 

“I don’t think it’s true,” Ed’s younger sister Hannah interrupts, so softly Cedric almost misses it. “Harry’s not exactly the chatty sort. I can’t imagine him talking that much, ‘specially about himself. And remember, two years ago, when we all thought he was the Heir of Slytherin? That was a lie, and I think the article is too.”

 

Ed shuffles on the bench uncomfortably, Thomas pokes at his egg yolk, and Stebbins rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

 

Cedric could kiss her. “I don’t want Rita Skeeter writing my name anywhere,” he adds. “Nothing good ever comes of it. Anyway, the article is a distraction, and I can’t afford that. The First Task is only a few weeks away.”

 

The First Task. Cedric can hardly think about it without wanting to launch himself into the nearest Vanishing Cabinet. He keeps silent as they all finish breakfast and wander off to classes, his head too full to pay attention to the conversation. He has a three-pronged list- Spells to Look Up, Spells to Practice, Spells He’s Mastered but Should Probably Still Practice Some More Just in Case. He spends nearly all his time in the library, guessing and second-guessing what the Task could be, wandering into more and more obscure territory. The First Task probably won’t have anything to do with Fidelius Charms or the Melofors Jinx, but Cedric now knows he can reliably cast them anyway-

 

And then, because his morning has been going far too well, apparently, his bag splits open, and ink goes _everywhere_ . The ink is scarlet, which he’s been told is like a very bright shade of red, which means _nothing_ , absolutely _nothing_ , it only looks dark and viscous like blood flowing from a gaping wound-

 

“Here, mate, let me-” Thomas says, wand outstretched.

 

“Don’t bother,” Cedric says, tries to keep the panic at bay with long, slow breaths. “Tell Flitwick I’m coming, go on. I don’t want you to be late, too.”

 

“If you say so,” Thomas says doubtfully, but he lets Stebbins pull him down the hallway. Cedric shakes his head- new bag and everything, that’s what he gets for trying to cram in twelve spellbooks at once, he supposes, and damn, that _really_ looks like blood-

 

Harry Potter’s face is in front of his face.

 

Like, _really_ close to his face.

 

Cedric feels his cheeks go warm and is immediately appalled at himself. “Hi,” he says, and tries not to wince at the unnaturally high pitch of his voice. “My bag just split- brand new and all-” he siphons up the ink with a silent _Scourgify_ and feels marginally better. At least he no longer looks like the perpetrator of a very violent, literature-themed crime.

 

“Cedric, the First Task is dragons,” Harry says, solemn as a dirge.

 

Cedric freezes, still bent over his Herbology textbook. “What.” It isn’t a question.

 

“Dragons. They’ve got four, one for each of us, and we’ve got to get past them.”

 

Cedric almost hates himself for it, but his first instinct is to be suspicious. His second instinct is to ratchet the panic back up, Merlin, _dragons_ \- “Are you sure?”

 

Of course Harry’s sure. The expression on his face is one only seen in Renaissance paintings- his features carved with the righteous conviction of a person who believes in their own absolute truth.

 

“I’m not the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know by now- Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the dragons, too.”

 

 _What_. “Why are you telling me?”

 

Harry looks at him like he’s stupid. “It’s just...fair, isn’t it?”

 

Cedric wanders into Charms and, for possibly the first time in his life, doesn’t pay a bit of attention to the lesson. Instead he scribbles a note on a spare bit of parchment, taps it so it folds itself into a little mouse, and sends it scurrying off to Cho.

 

The note says: _He’s a lot more than cute._ _I’m fucked._

 

♠

 

Hermione calls it an unhealthy coping mechanism, retreating to that fog-like state where nothing is quite real, whenever he’s particularly upset or stressed. Harry sees now that she might’ve had a point- he’s been living in the fog for so long that he hadn’t noticed how far-reaching the sea of gray around him was, not until it lifted. Making up with Ron is like shafts of light piercing through the gloom, making him feel lighter than he did while flying during the Task.

 

“Mister Weasley, out of the Healer’s tent!” Madame Pomfrey commands, jolting Harry out of out of the clouds and back down to earth. “Mister Potter is still healing!”

 

“Just a minute, just a minute!” Ron pleads, then turns to Harry. “You know,” he continues in a low tone, “I know I haven’t been- well. But I don’t want you to think, I mean, I saw you with Diggory the other day-”

 

“Ron,” Harry cuts in, trying not to laugh.

 

“It’s just I know you fancy him, even if you say you don’t, and I dunno how you’re supposed to say it, but I support you, or whatev-”

 

“I know,” Harry said in a rush. “I never thought you wouldn’t- not about that, anyway.”

 

Ron chokes off, and nods down at his shoes. “Well, good. Thanks. I just wanted to make sure you knew. Cho Chang, Diggory- it doesn’t matter.”

 

“Weasley. OUT,” Madame Pomfrey bellows, and Ron scarpers. Harry just sits there for a moment, enjoying this rare relief and satisfaction.

 

“Nice flying,” Diggory says from the other side of the tent.

 

Harry glances around, but no, it’s just the two of them in here. “Thanks,” he says, voice a little cool. Apparently it doesn’t matter what kind of mood he’s in- something about Diggory always makes something in his chest clench, a fist always a moment away from a punch. “Nice dog.”

 

Diggory snorts softly. It’s surprisingly undignified, and the fist in Harry’s heart unclenches a smidge. “Not really. Poor bit of Transfiguration- didn’t even have fur. And it didn’t fool the dragon, obviously,” he says with a gesture towards the goo on his face. Some of it has dripped onto his shirt. “Guess it felt wrong, in the end, sacrificing some poor animal, even if it wasn’t for real.”

 

“Oh.” Harry scratches the back of his head. _Congratulations, Potter, you’re being even more of a berk than usual_.

 

Diggory gives him a weary half-smile. “I was never very good at dogs, anyway. More of a cat person.”

 

Harry has somehow wandered closer to Diggory’s cot. He tells himself it’s because the light is so poor- they can barely see each other in the gloom. “How can you not like dogs?”

 

“I _do_ like dogs, I’m just not good at Conjuring them.”

 

“So why not just, I dunno, Transfigure the rock into a Scottish Fold?”

 

Diggory’s smile goes suddenly sly. “Scottish Fold? Really?”

 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

 

“It’s the stubby little ears, isn’t it? And here I thought you’d suggest a lio-”

 

Harry gives Diggory’s cot a little kick. “My question still stands.”

 

“I- oh, hell, I don’t know,” Diggory scrubs a hand over his face and only succeeds in smearing goo everywhere. “ _Eurgh_. Well. I suppose I didn’t have the clearest plan for today.”

 

Harry huffs out a laugh despite himself. “Join the club. Malfoy’s making buttons.”

 

Diggory’s answering chuckle makes clenching things start happening again. Different clenching. “I think your plan worked out all right. You looked good out there.”

 

 _Oh_. “Um. Thanks?”

 

“I- I meant your flying! Especially the bit at the end, with the Wronski Feint adaptation, it was really clever-”

 

“I didn’t exactly mean to do that,” Harry interrupts, because if he doesn’t, his face will _literally explode in flames_ and then they’ll both need goo. “But thanks.”

 

“You really are a much better flyer than me,” Diggory continues, undaunted. “Better Quidditch player, too.”

 

Harry has absolutely no response for that, and silence falls on the tent. Cedric’s expression spasms weirdly, flitting from nervousness to what might be guilt. Which makes Harry ...confused.

 

Very...confused.

 

Ugh, _this_ is why Diggory always sets him on edge- because he makes the fog lift too, but in a different, more unsettling way. Harry is so intensely aware of every movement, every minute expression; colors are brighter, more true; details stand out in sharp relief. Cedric makes the world look so much _more_ than it was before.

 

“Right, Mr. Diggory,” Madame Pomfrey bustles over, and the awkwardness parts for her like the Red Sea. “That poultice should be ready to come off now.”  With a wave of her wand, the goo disappears, leaving Diggory’s face as ridiculously perfect as ever.

 

Harry jumps to his feet. “I should go. Can I go?” he asks Madame Pomfrey, who sighs but nods. “See you around, Diggory. Um. Good luck with the next Task.”

 

Diggory frowns, but nods. “Okay. Bye, Harry.”

 

Harry trips over his own feet, but does manage to open the tent flap. “Right. Bye, uh. Cedric.”

 

♠

 

“Cho, please go to the Yule Ball with me,” Cedric all but begs. Actually, no, he does beg. He is _begging_.

 

Cho freezes in the act of putting _Dreadful Denizens of the Deep_ back on the library bookshelf. “Oh! Well, all right.” She turns to face him, but her head is cocked in the way that means she wants to say something but doesn’t think she should.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “If you don’t want to go with me, you don’t have to say yes, I completely understand-”

 

“It’s not that,” she interrupts, tapping one delicate finger against a book spine. “Only- I thought you were going to ask Harry.”

 

“WHAT.” He’s far too loud- a Ravenclaw in a nearby carrel turns and glares. “Sorry,” he says with a hasty nod, then pulls Cho further into the aisle. His voice drops to a stage whisper. “Cho. I can’t emphasize enough just how much I _cannot do that_.”

 

Cho’s answering scowl is somehow adorable- Cedric wants to smooth the wrinkle in her brow with his thumb, which he doesn’t do, because he’s not always an idiot.

 

“Cedric.” Cho’s voice is deceptively calm. “I think you should do what you want, for once.”

 

Cedric only blinks. They’ve had this argument before. He isn’t brave like she is; he can’t simply wear his heart on sleeve, exposing himself to other people’s judgments. He is not nearly comfortable enough with himself to let others see his flaws.

 

Of course, Cho would argue that emotions aren’t flaws. But this, the way he feels...it is a flaw. Or, at least, it isn’t quite right. Cedric is an adult in every way that counts, and Harry is only fourteen. And, well. The wizarding community isn’t exactly accepting of couples that don’t have the ability or desire to reproduce- anxiety caused by low population rates leading to the fear of dying out, multiplied by an obsession with “passing down” magic. It’s almost certainly an offshoot of pureblood mania, and something Cedric would be more than happy to discuss right now- any topic, really, that isn’t the one currently under discussion.

 

“I just can’t, Cho. Please.” _I want to. So very, very badly._

 

Cho, because she is a wonderful friend, relents. “Well…”

 

“I really do want to go with you,” he adds in a rush. “You’re my best friend. It’ll be fun. And, y’know. If Harry didn’t exist-” The confession makes his face heat up, but he knows Cho won’t judge him for it.

 

Cho’s eyelashes flutter bashfully. “No, I get it. Fine. I’ll go with you. But,” her expression slides into something stern enough to rival McGonagall, “I still think you should talk to him.”

 

Cedric doesn’t talk to Harry. Because Harry asks _Cho_ to the Yule Ball.

 

Well. At least Cedric can’t fault him in his taste.

 

♠

 

Three days after the Second Task, on a particularly cold and blustery morning, Harry decides to go for a fly.

 

Well, truthfully, Hermione all but kicks him out of Gryffindor Tower and tells him not to come back unless it’s with a better attitude. The awful weather suits his awful mood precisely- an arctic wind whips at his spare Quidditch robes, which are spotted with rain that spits fitfully from an iron grey sky. He can hardly think past his freezing nose and chillbained hands, and that’s fine. That’s great. Harry doesn’t want to think at all, not about the Yule Ball, not about the Task, not about nearly drowning only to find Cedric and Cho huddled under the same blanket, giggling at each other and looking blissfully-

 

Nope. Not thinking about it. And since he’s trying to be better about retreating into that fog-like state, he’s settled on his second-favorite coping mechanism: a nice, bracing game of keep-away. He releases both the Snitch and a single Bludger as soon as he steps onto the pitch. He mounts his Firebolt and feels it vibrate in his hands, like a living animal, like it’s almost more excited to be in the air than he is. He feels a moment’s guilt for not flying more often, but then he kicks up off the ground, hard, and leaves the guilt below him, along with everything else.

 

In the air, his world simplifies. He’s allowed to act before he thinks, his body making decisions before his mind is consciously aware. He rolls to avoid the Bludger and dives smoothly towards a glimmer of gold by the goal post, veering off sharply when the Bludger rockets around and nearly plows him in the face. He chases the Snitch relentlessly around and around the pitch, catching it three times and letting it go to begin the game anew. By the fourth round, his muscles are screaming in the best way.

 

The sudden sound of clapping snaps him out of this glorious headspace, and Harry whips his head around. Cedric is on the pitch, for some reason, with a smile Harry can see from halfway down the field. The Bludger stops chasing Harry to have a go at him instead, but Cedric only leaps and catches it neatly in his arms. Harry’s grudgingly impressed- Bludgers are heavy, even when they aren’t flying around at top speed.

 

“Sorry about that,” Harry says, a little out of breath as he lands. “Didn’t know anyone else was out here.”

 

Cedric’s eyes are bright. “S’fine. I think we had the same idea,” he says, gesturing to the Cleansweep lying on the grass. “You miss it too?”

 

“So much,” Harry replies before he can stop himself. “Feels wrong, not competing.”

 

“I’m just glad you didn’t have the Firebolt in that match last year- you would’ve outflown me in a heartbeat.”

 

Harry shrugs. “Or I would’ve just trashed a Firebolt.”

 

Cedric’s eyebrows lift. “Well, maybe we should find out.” He picks his broom up and mounts it. “Rematch?”

 

“I-” Harry begins, but cuts himself off, not entirely sure what’s going on. His mind flashes back to Cedric and Cho dancing closely at the Yule Ball. “Sure you’re not too busy?”

 

Cedric tilts his head in bemusement. “No? Why would I be?” His eyes are the exact color of the sky overhead. Harry wonders, vaguely, what he did in a past life -or this life- to deserve being tortured like this. “You all right, Harry?”

 

Harry mentally shakes himself. “Nothing, it’s nothing. So. Rematch?”

 

Cedric smirks, and shoots off into the air. Harry curses, and follows.

 

Serious play only lasts for about ten minutes, and then the game quickly devolves into a competition to see who can dodge the Bludger in the most spectacular way. Harry thinks he’s won with his perfectly-executed sloth grip roll, until Cedric one-ups him by leaping _over_ the Bludger as it rushes towards him and landing back on his broom with only a small wince. Harry lets out a high whistle and slow-claps, which makes Cedric turn an alarming shade of red.

 

 _Interesting_.

 

They lose track of time completely, and it feels like hours have passed when they both collapse onto the damp and rather muddy pitch, bodies too warm from exercise to feel the cold. Harry can feel Cedric’s shoulder brush against his with every breath, and it makes his head spin faster than the clouds overhead. The sky is even darker and more foreboding than it was in the morning, and Harry sighs.

 

“I miss blue skies,” he murmurs. “It’s always so grey here.”

 

Harry feels Cedric shrug. “It doesn’t matter much to me,” the older boy says. “All of my days are grey.”

 

“All...what?” He turns, to see Cedric staring straight up with his head pillowed on his arm, hair ruffling in the breeze, cheeks pink from exercise and chill. Cedric turns on his side, meeting Harry’s gaze with a dreamy look in his eyes.

 

“You didn’t know?” he asks, humor tinting his voice.

 

“Know what?”

 

Cedric leans closer, like he’s confiding, like there’s a secret between them. Their noses nearly brush. “Bit of a genetic quirk,” he near-whispers. “I can’t see color.”

 

Harry can feel his pulse beating in his throat. “No color? At all?”

 

“Not a bit.” Cedric’s expression goes all wistful, and Harry feels just the lightest feather-touch at the corner of his eye. “Your eyes are green, yes?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What is green?”

 

Harry isn’t sure the question is even directed at him, and words aren’t exactly his strong suit, but he wants to answer anyway. “Green is- it’s- well, it’s all sorts of things” he says with a nervous laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dark edge of the Forbidden Forest hovering in the distance, and inspiration strikes. “Dark green is like being in the Forest, when it’s dim and cool and everything smells of pine.”

 

Cedric’s smile widens. The barely-there touch by Harry’s eye drifts slowly down, back and forth across his cheekbone. “And light green?”

 

“It depends. It can be how limes taste, all bright and sharp. Or, or-” Merlin, he’s forgetting how to breathe. “Or it can be like when you lie down on the lawn right after the grass is mowed and you can smell it drying in the sun.” A memory arises, unbidden, of being made to tend Aunt Petunia’s vegetable patch, and it’s not a pleasant memory, but- “Or sometimes it’s when you plant something in the garden, and the seedlings start to sprout, and the tiny leaves are so thin and soft, and you think-”

 

The words dry out in his mouth as he feels the touch land just at the bottom of his lower lip.

 

“And you think, _I can’t believe I did that_ ,” Cedric supplies. He’s staring at Harry’s mouth.

 

Harry nods almost frantically even as his brain fractures. He thinks he knows what’s about to happen, but he’s not sure why, or what to do. He might be having a very slow heart attack.

 

But then the hand on his face falls away, and Cedric sits up with a sigh. The back of his training robe is damp. The world rushes back in, and Harry suddenly realizes just how cold and wet he is. They collect their things in silence, and trudge slowly back up to the castle.

 

Cedric sighs again, and looks up at the sky. “You say the sky is grey now?”

 

“Yeah.” _Like a bad mood_ , he doesn’t say.

 

“I know what grey is. But what is blue?”

 

This one takes Harry a bit longer, head still spinning from the abrupt mood change, mind still stuck on blushing pink, on blood rushing to the skin’s surface and hot breath across his lips, so much more inviting than the frigid breeze blowing through him now. _Pink is a kiss_ , he thinks, though it’s not like he would know.

 

But what is blue?

 

By the time he’s come up with an answer, Cedric is holding open the door to the Great Hall and beckoning him inside. When they reach the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Harry pauses, but Cedric keeps walking; and even the idea of the back of Cedric’s head, getting smaller and smaller into the distance, makes Harry lose what little control he has left.

 

“Cedric!”

 

“Yes?” Cedric turns right round, drawn back in as if by a magnet.

 

“Blue is the moment just before you fall asleep,” Harry says. “Or when you wake up in the middle of the night and you feel like the only person in the world.”

 

Before he can blink, there are fingers curling around the back of his neck and lips on his, warm, deep, lush as roses. Harry can’t help the little gasp, or the way his mouth drops open. There’s just a tiny flick of tongue, a teasing nip at his bottom lip that makes blood rise all over.

 

Until Cedric rips himself away like a bandage, _again_ , utter shock in his eyes.

 

“Harry,” he says, hoarse-voiced, before his mouth snaps shut. He shakes his head once, sharply, then abruptly about-faces and practically runs away.

 

He leaves Harry baffled and gaping, vision going pink and blue and green.  

 

♠ ♠ ♠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry. Poor Cedric. The things I put these boys through...
> 
>  
> 
> Like what I write? Wanna see more? I have a writing blog at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wyattandersonwriting. Hope to see you there!

**Author's Note:**

> I should warn you now- you're gonna need tissues for this one, or you will if I do my job right.
> 
> I'll probably go back and edit this at least a few times...


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